


Unusual Dragons with Adventurous Palates

by abstractconcept



Category: Top Chef RPF, Unusual Dragon Hoards - iguanamouth
Genre: Crack, Crossdressing, Crossover, Gen, Humor, Padma Lakshmi doesn't get paid enough for this, RPF, Yuletide Treat, bizarre ingredients, everything's better with DRAGONS, everything's better with RANCH DRESSING, tongue-in-cheek cooking, worst Top Chef challenge ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unusual Dragons are big fans of Top Chef, and decide to visit earth and have their favorite chefs whip them up a meal. It's going to take all of Spike Mendelsohn's cunning to survive this challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unusual Dragons with Adventurous Palates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovepeaceohana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovepeaceohana/gifts).



> Lovepeaceohana, when I saw your letter, I just loved the idea of both Top Chef AND Unusual Dragons. I really love Top Chef, even some of the unpopular cheftestants (Dale Talde is my absolute favorite chef, God knows why) so I thought it would be fun to throw all my favorites together, add some dragons, stir in some absurdity and season it with humor.
> 
> ETA: If you want to see the Unusual Dragon Hoards by Iguanamouth, [her stuff is here!](http://lizardshuffle.tumblr.com/) they are hilarious and perfect!

The contestants of Top Chef stared in shock. 

“Welcome to this season’s holiday special, Top Chef: Night of the Dragon, sponsored by the Glad family of products. Let me introduce you to your guest judges this evening—dragons from another dimension! Surprised?” Padma smiled maniacally, her perfect teeth gleaming. They were, in context, almost as frightening as the gleaming fangs the dragons were displaying in a mockery of a human smile. At least dragons were supposed to be terrifying. Padma Lakshmi, Spike decided, was a sadist. 

The contestants nodded numbly.

Padma laughed charmingly, her dark eyes flashing. “The dragons have visited us here on earth for one reason, and one reason only, and that is to taste your food.”

[In his interview later, Fabio would say in his thick Italian accent, “I was happy for dragons. I was afraid at first—I was worried that I have to cook for Anthony Bourdain! Dragons is easy.”

Spike said, “I’m going to kill my agent. He told me that contract had a lot of fine print but he obviously didn’t bother to read it.”

Dale Talde told the camera, “What the bleep, man. I thought ‘Night of the Dragon’ meant we’d be doing Asian! I would _not_ have signed on for this.”] 

But in the moment, every chef looked petrified and unable to say a thing. 

The dragons had abruptly manifested on Earth almost a week earlier, causing major havoc, and were said to be in talks with the heads of many nations as well as the U.N. The President had issued a statement that they were in no danger and they should go about their business as usual. The general public didn’t have any idea why they’d come, but Spike hadn’t imagined for a moment that they’d dropped by for take-out.

Spike looked the dragons over. The judges’ table had been expanded considerably and the roof raised, but some of the creatures still barely fit in the room. The smallest was the size of a spaniel, green with translucent wings. That one wasn’t so intimidating. Sitting beside it was a blue and beige dragon with a cat curled up beside its plate. It had bulbous green eyes with catlike pupils, and it made Spike a little nervous. There was also a tiny pink dragon, and a dragon with dozens of red eyes, and a dragon that almost seemed to have antlers. There was a dragon with long, pointed horns. He had something dangling from one of them that looked like a piece of bacon. Spike hoped it was bacon, anyway. There was a yellowish dragon that sort of swayed in its seat. Then there was the dragon with the big, off-putting grin. Spike didn’t like the look of him at _all_. But the scariest dragon was the one sitting in Tom Colicchio’s seat. 

That dragon looked pretty much like the other dragons, but it was a dragon whose eyes glowed softly like paper lanterns, its scales ranging from the inky black of midnight to the unfading amaranthine of twilight, and its wings, when unfurled, seemed to glow with the shimmering splendor of the stars themselves.

“As you can see, these judges have unusual tastes. But you’re going to have to find a way to satisfy these tastes, or they’re probably going to destroy the planet,” Padma said cheerfully. Spike blinked. He looked at her more closely and noticed she was swaying in place. Padma was _wasted,_ Spike suddenly realized. Only years of drinking and being professional in front of the camera were keeping her from falling over. 

[In her interview later, Antonia made a face. “We have to cook for _dragons?_ I mean, what do dragons even eat!?” 

Richard Blais merely shook his head and stared helplessly at the interviewer. “I—I . . .” he trailed off and shook his head again.

“I have no idea what dragons eat,” Dale told the camera. “Meat, I guess. I mean, they have the teeth for it. Long, sharp, meat-eating teeth. I was thinking maybe I’d just tether a goat out in the middle of the room, toss some fish sauce on its back, then make a run for it. You know, like Jurassic Park?” he laughed, sounding a little hysterical.

Tre Wilcox shrugged his buff shoulders at the interviewer. “What do dragons eat? Beats me. I dunno what dragons eat. Hobbits?”]

“So, uh . . . I’m going to let our guest judges introduce themselves,” Padma said, waving an uncoordinated hand in the general direction of the creatures. 

The tiny pink dragon took the lead. “I am Esme, Hoarder of Knives!” Spike blinked. Now that she mentioned it, the dragon did have several extra knives around her plate. Spike assumed it was probably a female dragon, anyway. He wondered how you figured out dragon genders. He squinted at their tails, thinking maybe they were like snakes. He used to have a snake as a kid—suddenly he shook his head. What was he _doing?_ Their genders didn’t matter—their shiny, sharp teeth mattered! He needed to stay focused. Fear was making him stupid.

The dragon with antlers grinned widely. “I am Frank, Hoarder of Broken VHS tapes!” He whipped his tail quite proudly. There was a spool of tape caught around one of his horns. 

The dragon covered with bulbous red eyes tasted the air with a long, forked tongue. “I am Doris, Hoarder of Snakes and Lizards.”

They continued this way down the line, introducing themselves as Soor, Hoarder of Cups and Saucers, Abed, hoarder of Meat, Felix, Hoarder of Cats, Lizzie, Hoarder of Reality Television Shows, and the one with the creepy smile was Walter, Hoarder of Panties. 

Then the dragon in Tom’s seat spoke up. “And I,” it said in a voice that echoed in the hollow of your chest before dying away and leaving you feeling empty, like the mournful whistle of a train passing through a sleeping town in the dead of night, “am Star Lord.”

“Er, really?” Richard said.

The dragon’s eyes flashed and Doris gave a snort. “Yes, call me Star Lord,” the dragon replied. “Though I am, of course, the Hoarder of Stars, Suns and Planets.”

“Oh,” Blais said.

Tiffany Faison raised a finger. “Could I, uh, just ask one thing? Why, exactly did you decide to come here?”

Star Lord folded his claws together. “We have been watching Top Chef ever since Lizzie (formerly Hoarder of Pens Taken From Banks) got bored with her collection and moved on and became Hoarder of Reality Television Shows.” The contestants glanced at Lizzie, who was a large dragon of amber color, with eyes like the snow you used to see late at night when television programming shut down. Lizzie didn’t say anything, but swayed just a little from side to side and occasionally demanded potato chips in a mumble. Maybe it was just Spike’s imagination, but Lizzie didn’t seem all that tuned in. 

Star Lord continued. “Top Chef is by far our favorite reality television program since Project Runway went off the rails, and after some discussion we decided we would manifest themselves into the universe where Top Chef is filmed and to test your expert culinary skills.” He smiled, showing teeth that gleamed. “The challenge will be very much the same, save the judges will be us, and the stakes will be higher.” Abed, Hoarder of Meat, looked quite interested until Star Lord glanced at him and added, “Not that kind of steak.”

Padma clapped her hands to get their attention. “So. I’m going to give you a few minutes to find out more about our guests’ palates, and then you’re going to have one hour to prepare a dish. Whole Foods has generously stocked the pantry tonight, so you won’t have the chance to duck out the back door and escape. Don’t worry; you’ll find absolutely anything you could want. We spared no expense.” Padma dizzily gazed at the chefs. “So, I’m sure it doesn’t need saying, but . . .” she smiled pleasantly over her shoulder at the dragons before turning back to them and lowering her voice to a hiss, “for fuck’s sake, Richard, _do not dream_ of choking tonight.” Spike glanced over at Blais, who was white a sheet and sort of clammy looking. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay? Good luck, you guys.”

The cheftestants stared at the dragons. Spike wondered who would have the nerve to ask the first question. 

Richard raised his hand. “Um, excuse me? What, uh, what all do you like to eat? What are your favorite foods?”

The dragons conferred before turning back to the contestants. “Our diet is quite varied.”

“I, personally, am fond of tax collectors,” Esme said. The way she played daintily with one of her knives, running a claw up and down its blade with a scraping sound, made Spike break into a sweat. 

“I quite like lighter meals—dalliances and trifles and afternoon naps,” Walter told them. “Garnished with lace. Lots of lace . . .” He smiled his salacious smile at them.

“Dalliances! Hmph. Give me something that sticks to my ribs,” Felix chortled. “Rugby, or armies, or in a pinch, metaphors.”

“Metaphors?” Spike moaned. Shit, how the fuck was he supposed to cook under these conditions?

Walter waved a claw. “Ugh, no metaphors for me, please. I’m trying to watch my weight. If you must, a sprinkling of similes will do.”

Spike looked at his fellow chefs. Richard Blais looked like he was going to pass out. Then again, Richard Blais frequently looked like he was going to pass out. Fabio Vivani’s face was waxen. Tiffani Faison looked grim, Dale Talde looked gobsmacked, and Antonia looked like she didn’t believe this was actually happening. Tre was shaking his head, eyes wide. Only Kristen Kish and Marcel Vigneron didn’t seem to be fazed. Kristen looked determined and poised, and Marcel was bouncing up and down a little and grinning like an idiot. 

Spike turned back to the dragons only to realize he’d zoned out. He hoped he hadn’t missed anything important. 

“Canned food is inferior! You’ve heard them say it on tv a hundred times! Only _fresh_ is any good. How can you say you have a discriminating palate if you’re eating canned _anything!?_ ” Esme snarled. 

Frank, the one with videotape dangling from his horn, dug his heels in. “I don’t care. I _only_ like canned laughter. Fresh laughter gives me indigestion.”

“And I,” Star Lord broke in, brandishing one claw high in dramatic fashion, “eat only moonbeams . . . and slim jims.”

“Potato chips for me, please,” murmured Lizzy.

“Will you listen to yourself?” Doris snapped. “We came here to expand our palates. To try new things! Obviously you don’t kidnap a group of the most talented chefs in the universe and then demand they make you junk food like moonbeams!”

Star Lord thrashed his tail in outrage, smashing it into the fancy cut woodwork behind the table and making the _Top Chef_ sign sag to one side. “MOONBEAMS MAKE MY SCALES SHINE!”

Doris drew herself up to her full height. “MOONBEAMS HAVE NO NUTRITIONAL VALUE WHATSOEVER!” she roared. 

Spike hid behind Tiffani, thinking they were about to do battle. “Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. I don’t want to die over an argument over what constitutes junk food,” he whimpered. 

“Man up,” Tiffani snapped. “They’re settling down. Go back to your own station, you big baby.”

Weirdly, it looked like Tiffani was right. Spike wasn’t sure how or why, but Star Lord was sulking, and Doris smiled a sticky-sweet grin at them. “My deepest apologies; what must you think of us? We promise that we are very adventurous diners and we look forward to trying _all_ of your dishes with _extremely_ open minds.”

Star Lord crossed his claws over his chest. “But not cilantro,” he grumbled. 

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake_ , not _again_ with the cilantro!” Felix rumbled. “Can we ever have just one meal where you do not make your hatred of cilantro known to all and sundry?”

Star Lord stuck out his lower lip. “I have an allergy,” it rumbled. 

“You do _not_ have an allergy! You are just a picky eater. Next thing you know Richard Blais will create a culinary masterpiece using liquid hydrogen and foie gras, and you will demand ranch dressing on the side!”

“THEY NEVER BRING ME ENOUGH RANCH DRESSING!!!!” Star Lord thundered. The words were so loud they rang in Spike’s head, leaving him dazed. 

Doris sighed. “You are so embarrassing to dine with,” she said. “I’ve told you time and again, one does not demand ranch dressing at upscale establishments. It is vulgar and crass. We don’t wish to be seen as uncivilized philistines.”

“And I KEEP TELLING YOU, I want ranch dressing EVEN IF WE ORDER FINE DINING!” Star Lord roared. “I want ranch dressing on my BREAD. I want ranch dressing on my BUTTER. I want ranch dressing ON MY _MOONBEAMS!_ ”

Doris tisked and rolled her many eyes. “Our apologies. Please ignore us.”

Spike, as well as the other chefs, all discreetly scribbled, “***RANCH DRESSING************” on their prep lists. It might not help, but it sure wouldn’t hurt.

Marcel waved his hand around in the air. Only Marcel would be tone deaf enough to interrupt an argument between dragons. “Hey, excuse me, guys, but you said there would be high stakes? Like, um, I was just wondering, like . . . what kind of stakes are we talking? Like, what does the winner get?”

Star Lord smiled. “The winner will receive a _fabulous_ set of prizes worth . . . worth . . . well, beyond value, including a new, state-of-the-art Kenmore kitchen, nearly one million dollars furnished by Buitonni, and a trip to Omicron Persei 10 to be our personal chef for the rest of eternity.” Doris tugged at Star Lord’s elbow and hissed something. “Oh! Yes! I’d forgot. Also a bottle of Terlato wine.”

“Cool!” Marcel repeated. “And, like, if we lose?”

The dragon looked uncertain. “If you lose, um . . .” The dragons conferred. Spike dropped and began to crawl toward the exit. He could hear muttering. “Mumble mumble . . . No, we will not demand they give us their own hoards of cats . . . mutter mumble . . . because it only benefits _you_ , that’s why! . . . mumble . . . no, we cannot demand Lamborghinis . . . mumble mutter. . . because I don’t think any of them have Lamborghinis . . .”

Finally, just as Spike had almost edged his way to door of the kitchen, the hoard of dragons turned en masse. “The loser will be devoured,” the one with the cup and saucer announced. The rest of the dragons nodded. Spike nearly shit himself. He knew it! They were dragons; that was what dragons did. 

Doris stared at Spike with her many red eyes, and Spike got the feeling she could read his mind. He gave her a wobbly smile. “Clever girl,” he muttered. Meekly, he scooted back over to his station. 

“Okay. Well. Now that _that’s_ sorted,” Padma said with inappropriate, drunken cheer, “You will have one hour to cook. And your time starts . . . _now!_ ”

The chefs made a mad dash to the kitchen, where they all scrabbled for proteins in the fridge. Kish was a surprisingly vicious competitor, jamming a sharp elbow in Spike’s ribs after he accidentally stepped on her foot. Well, it was mostly an accident. In the time it took Spike to recover his breath, she’d taken off with the snapper he’d been after. Spike tried to jam his way through the crowd, but got jostled from one side to the other, with Dale Talde ramming him from behind like he was trying to check him into the boards, then grabbing past him to snatch the branzino. 

When the smoke finally cleared, as it were, Spike found himself alone in front of the open refrigerator, panting. There was only one package left. He stared at it. “ _Frozen scallops? _” he squawked. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!”__

[“Spike knows how this works,” Dale would later say scornfully when he was interviewed about the incident. “This wasn’t his first rodeo. You snooze, you lose, man.”] 

Spike picked out the rest of his ingredients in a daze. Okay. Okay. He’d made it work before, he could do it again. He hurried back to his table and began assembling his dish. Still, he couldn’t help but look wildly around at what the other chefs were doing, hoping they’d give him some inspiration. Dale Talde was chopping up fish like his life depended on it, his eyes wild. His life probably _did_ depend on it. Still, Spike wasn’t worried about Dale; he was worried about himself. 

Kristen Kish didn’t seem to notice or care that she was cooking for dragons. She was very carefully adding sprigs of dill to her dish with a pair of tweezers. Spike very much doubted that any dragon was going to be more critical of Kristen than she was of her own plate. The look on her face said that if anything was wrong with her dish, she deserved to be devoured by dragons. Spike knew that there wouldn’t be anything less than perfect on her plate. 

Richard Blais was muttering and pale and sweaty, but then Richard Blais was pretty much always muttering and pale and sweaty. “This is crap,’ Spike could hear him muttering. “My food is all crap. I don’t even know why I do this. I suck. I suck at this. I suck at everything.” 

Fabio, beside him, put down the knife he was using to chop oregano. “Look, Richie. Don’t do this to yourself. You know whatever you make, they will _love_ it!” 

“Thanks, Maestro. I’ve just never cooked for a dragon before, you know? I’m not familiar with their tastes. I mean, I’m kind of assuming steak tartar is their kind of thing, but what about herbs? Acid? Spice—do they like spice? I could see a dragon maybe really going for some good Indian. But what do I know? And _ranch dressing_ , Jesus.” Blais scuttled back and forth from his mise en place to his pan, checking everything feverishly. 

“I know, I know. But it’s going to be great. You are gonna do _great_ ,” Fabio assured him. 

“Hope you’re right. What are you making? Need any help?” 

“I got this one,” Fabio said. “Papparadelle with Bolognese Sauce. They gonna _love_ it.” 

“All right. Let me know if you start falling behind, okay? Okay?” Blais said, looking at Fabio with worry etched on his brow. “I’m not gonna let you be dinner for a dragon due to a technicality.” 

Spike huffed, still furiously trying to come up with a dish. He wished he’d kissed Richard Blais’s ass enough that Blais would offer to help cook his dish. 

[Richard would later say, “Well, obviously I was gonna help Fabio out if I could. I couldn’t let him get eaten by a _dragon._ I mean, Fabio is very important to me. Sometimes a phone call from him is the only thing that keeps me from having a nervous breakdown.” 

Antonia merely rolled her eyes. “I was like, ‘Here we go again.’ Sometimes I think those two are like, co-dependent. I just hoped they would pay as much attention to their food as they did to each other.”] 

Fabio grinned, stirring his sauce. “Why you so good to me, Richie?" 

“Because you’re good to me, and I love you buddy, all right?” 

Beaming, Fabio had to stop working long enough to come over and grab Richard’s face in both hands and kiss him on the cheek. 

Spike revised his opinion. He’d rather do his own dish than have a crazy Italian guy slobber on him. He sighed. What was he good at? What could he use to his advantage? He might not always be the best chef around, but he was crafty. Maybe he could talk to the dragons, get them to spill something useful. Spike glanced at the dragons. As he prepared his hearts of palm he asked casually, “What do you do with your hoards? I mean, do you guys . . . . like, eat them, or sleep on them or what?” 

Walter sighed. “Sometimes, yes.” Spike must have made a face, because Walter’s smile was wry. “Don’t try judging _me_ , boy. I’m an unspeakable dragon who collects underwear; you think I haven’t heard it before? Besides, I watched your season. I remember the block party.” His slitted yellow eyes went unfocused, distant. “Anyhow, no human could understand. A dragon’s love is an obsessive love. It is a love of perfection, yet of quantity. It is a desire to understand the thing, be close to the thing, touch the thing, treasure the thing, have the thing with you at all times . . . and sometimes eat the thing. Yes, it happens, but not so often as you might think.” 

“You can’t have your cats and eat them, too,” Felix broke in with a sad expression. 

“Huh. Cool, cool,” Spike said. “How do you decide what to hoard?” 

“Oh, you just know,” Walter said. “When I saw my first pair of panties it was like love at first sight.” Spike made a face. “Of course, I used to collect spaniels, but they just got to be too much work. And I wasn’t _feeling_ it, you know?” 

Spike cleared his throat. “Where do you get your, um, products?” 

“I get mine from Davis, Hoarder of Kittens,” Felix said. “And when they grow older and have kittens of their own, I give those to Davis. It’s a very fulfilling relationship, a yin and yang, if you would. But every dragon is different.” 

“I generally go antiquing on Sundays,” Soor added. “Also estate sales. Once in a while Crate and Barrel.” 

“I visit the vast expanse of universes other than my own,” Star Lord put in. 

Spike looked to Walter, who licked his lips. “Japanese vending machines,” he rasped. 

“Oh, _gross._ ” 

“Hey, like I said, don’t judge. Besides, I’m not allowed in Victoria’s Secret anymore. Apparently when Karlie Kloss struts about in nothing but angels’ wings and lingerie, giving people come-hither looks, she’s ‘radiant’ and ‘ethereal,’ but when _I_ do it, I’m ‘creepy’ and ‘making the customers uncomfortable.’ So I have to take what I can get, all right?” So saying, Walter groomed his feathers, looking sulky. He muttered about double-standards and humans and the unfairness of it all. 

_Panties,_ Spike thought . . . _panties_. He leaned over to where Tiffani was engrossed in preparing a piquillo pepper-tomato sauce, tasting it frequently. 

“Yo, Tiff.” 

“What’s up, Spike?” 

“I need to borrow something.” She held out a spice container. “No, that’s not it. Uh, I was wondering if you would give me your underwear. _Sell_ me your underwear,” he amended when she glared at him. “Come on, man, I’ll give you a hundred bucks. Two hundred. Three! I’ll write you a check after the show.” 

“No amount of money is going to get me to take off my underwear for you, Spike,” she replied in a wry voice. 

“Tiffani, goddammit, give me your underwear!” She glared so hard that he quailed. “Look, this isn’t like getting my food bashed by Toby Young. If I lose tonight, Collichiosaurus over there is going to _eat me_.” 

“Then don’t make a bad dish!” 

[Later she would say, “Obviously Spike has no confidence in his skills as a cook. That’s just like Spike, to start scheming instead of to, you know, just settle down and focus on the food.”] 

Spike groaned and went back to his dish. _Panties, panties. Well, there’s always . . . hell._ He glanced back up at the dragons. He could feel a trickle of sweat run down his forehead. “So, uh, Davis, Hoarder of Kittens didn’t make it today?” 

Felix shrugged. “Davis wasn’t interested.” 

“How many of you are there?” 

“Us?” 

“Hoarders of . . . stuff.” 

“Well, there are lots of dragons who hoard—it’s a hereditary mental thing, you know. I’ve known a few who got treatment, but most don’t bother; they say it’s a proud tradition. The old-fashioned sorts only like to do the conventional stuff—you know, gold, jewels, passé stuff like that. But some of us younger, edgier, more forward-thinking dragons like to try new things. Right now we’re kind of an exclusive bunch—you’re not going to join our ranks if you’re into that out-of-date stuff like comic books or stamps or antiques or any of that. You have to have innovative thinking. There are only about forty of us right now.” 

“Oh?” Spike said. This was good. He was forming a bond. They wouldn’t want to eat him once they became friends, right? “So, uh, who all couldn’t make it, and what do they hoard?” 

“Well, there’s Davis, of course. There’s also Stacey, Hoarder of Junk Food, but she said wouldn’t come because you might try to make her eat broccoli or something disgusting like that. Diego collects cheese, but he’s getting over a cold, and every time he sneezes he sets something on fire. That just seemed like an accident waiting to happen on set. There’s Chang, Hoarder of Fluffy Bunnies, and Adir, Hoarder of Legos. But Adir and Star Lord are currently Not Getting On after Star Lord stepped on a lego, so. And then there’s Shanika, Hoarder of Hordes.” 

“Hoarder of _Hoards?_ ” Spike echoed. 

“No, _Hordes,_ with an e,” Felix said. 

Spike blinked, interested despite himself. Felix was stroking his long-haired cat like a villain in a Bond movie. “What kind of Hordes?” 

“Mainly Vikings. Hey, it works for everyone. The Vikings love going into battle with a dragon in tow, just for the effect it has on their enemies. This means, of course, that the Viking Horde has its own Hoard, mainly of gold and jewels, but also on occasion they pick up weapons and drinks and maidens, and also sometimes curry after a good plundering, if they happen to be in the mood. The Viking Horde is a lot more work than some Hoards, but Shanika loves it just the same.” 

Spike stared, speechless. That was crazy. This was crazy. Dragons were crazy. Heck, maybe _he_ was crazy. Maybe this was all a bad dream. He pinched himself, and it hurt. 

“Checking the tenderness of your meat? That is a very good idea,” Esme told him. “We don’t like tough meat.” 

Spike let out an undignified yelp and went back to frantically cooking. This was not shaping up to be one of his best dishes, and there was a lot on the line. 

“Chefs, you have _five minutes!_ ” Padma called out. “You should be plating!” 

Spike looked down at his food in horror. It looked like crap. He knew it was crap. He could feel it in his gut that this was a losing dish. He gulped. There was only one thing to do. He made a mad dash to the kitchen to do one last thing, then sprinted back into the room. 

Padma was counting down. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .” The rest of the chefs where making mad dashes here and there, trying to get everything on their plates. Spike dropped his final ingredient on his final plate. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one! Time’s up! Hands up, utensils down! Everybody step away from their plates!” 

Richard Blais presented first, apparently so their palates would be clean. Spike knew everyone hoped Blais would make something so amazing that the dragons would spare them all. With trembling hands, he set the plates before each dragon. Spike could see he was incredibly nervous—even his spiky blond hair was shaking. “So, uh, what I made is what I call ‘pearls before swine.’ So we have a roasted pork belly with fried egg, cornichons, frisee, pickled shallots, and topped off with some smoked mayo pearls made with liquid nitrogen. And a lot of whimsy, you know? So, uh, enjoy.” He stepped back, watching them chew. 

“It’s delicious,” Soor said, wiping her snout daintily with a little lace napkin. “The whimsy is lovely.” 

“Mmmm, divine,” Felix opined, squeezing his eyes shut in contentment. “Very tender.” 

“No ranch dressing,” Star Lord said with disapproval. 

Next up was Marcel. “I have for you today a delicious tenderloin steak and eggs benedict with asparagus, topped off with, instead of a béarnaise sauce, I did my own play on a ranch dressing. So, it’s like a ranch dressing, but it’s got some lemon and some shiso in there, and I mixed it up with a little liquid nitrogen. And _mine_ is cooked with a lot of chutzpah, you know? It’s got some real audacious notes, because that’s who I am. Yeah, so, enjoy.” 

“It’s got a good balance; good amount of acid,” Walter noted. “It balances well with the audacity.” 

“Delicious ranch dressing,” Star Lord hissed. Marcel grinned from ear to ear. 

Fabio stepped up next, then Tiffani, then Antonia. Tre presented a swordfish with braised endive and matsutake mushroom puree—with a little bit of trepidation, but Esme said she could eat that trepidation all day. Dale gave them each a whole roasted branzino with crispy sunchokes, pickled turnips, and thumbalina carrots, seasoned with desperation and fear. Fabio had, of course, made pasta, with love. Kristen served her plates next: red snapper with fennel, arugula, charred orange and dill. In deference to the dragons, she said she made it with care and attention to detail. It looked delicious. 

The dragons all loved it—with the exception of Star Lord. “I distinctly told the chefs that I wanted ranch dressing,” Star Lord said. “Why they can’t get ONE SIMPLE THING, I don’t know.” 

“Shhhhh,” Esme scolded. “Next!” 

Spike walked forward, trembling. Oh, God, he hoped he could pull this off. “So, uh, I have, um, some _delicious_ seared scallops with hearts of palm salad, pickled mushrooms, and a lime . . . ranch dressing. And, uh, there are some similes in the pickled mushrooms. Like, they’re pickled like pickles. And they’re seasoned with, um, with a little bit of underhanded slyness. Enjoy.” Sweating, he stepped back. 

Star Lord glanced at Walter’s plate. “What is that?” 

“Just a garnish,” Spike replied hurriedly. 

The great blue dragon flexed his wings in irritation. “Are you meant to eat it? Because I didn’t get—” 

“No, no. Just for looks.” 

Star Lord exchanged a look with Esme and they both shook their heads in disapproval. “NFG,” Esme sighed. 

“NFG,” Star Hoard agreed. “You ought to know better.” 

Spike squirmed. Shit, shit, shit. He hoped he wasn’t going to die over a non-functional garnish!!! He’d put it on because he’d thought it would _help!_

The dragons didn’t seem to like his dish, either. “The scallops aren’t very good,” Felix pointed out. 

“The flavor’s a little bland,” Soor said. “Did you taste this before you served it? Because it could really use salt.” 

“That’s cooking 101,” Doris said wisely. 

“I liked it,” Walter dissented. “The similes were a nice touch.” 

“It wasn’t very good, but at least there was plenty of ranch dressing,” Star Hoard said. 

“You may all leave the kitchen while we make our final decision,” Frank said. 

Back in the stew room, Spike collapsed on the floor. “Panties,” he whimpered hysterically. “Panties!” 

Tiffani and Antonia sat down on the floor next to him and stroked his head. “It’ll be okay,” Antonia lied. 

“At least you gave them ranch dressing,” Kristen said bitterly. “I should have done it. I should have just given them what they wanted.” Spike wondered what her problem was. There was no _way_ she was getting eaten. 

The chefs could hear roaring from the other room as the dragons debated. Spike nearly peed himself. “Oh, god, oh, god,” he moaned. “I’m gonna die because of a frozen scallop dish.” 

“Look,” Richard said, “we’re not gonna let that happen. I say, if Spike loses, we all offer our knives to that one who collects knives, right?” 

“Yeah,” Antonia agreed. “We’ll give her all our knives.” 

“I’m in,” said Tre. 

“We’ll all offer our knives in exchange for our friend’s life. Got it?” 

Everyone agreed. Spike managed a watery smile. He was lucky to work with so many great chefs. He vowed, if he lived through this, to be a better person. To do less scheming and be more generous. To never, ever make fun of Blais and Fabio or their bromance ever again. 

Suddenly, Padma appeared in the doorway. “The judges would like to see you now,” she announced. Then she fell over on top of Marcel. Being somewhat shorter than Padma and taken by surprise, he didn’t really manage to catch her so much as fall over with her in a heap. They managed to lay Padma down on the floor. 

“Ugh, she smells like a distillery,” Antonia commented. 

“Hey, she did good today,” Blais said. “If you told me _I’d_ have to host a show with dragons, I’m not sure I could handle that.” 

[“Well, it’s not like he had any problem cooking for them,” Dale later told the cameras. “Richie was actually pretty cool under the pressure. I mean, considering.”] 

The chefs walked on jelly legs out in front of the judge’s panel. 

“Get ready to get in front of Spike,” Richard said. 

They lined up, looking wide-eyed up at the dragons. 

“There were some successful dishes, as well as some not-so-successful dishes,” Esme said. “Richard, your pork was excellent. The mayo pearls had a real ‘wow’ factor.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Marcel, your tenderloin was cooked to perfection, and you managed to incorporate Star Lord’s taste in such a way that it didn’t make me want to vomit, so congratulations on that.” 

“Thank you so much.” Marcel beamed. 

“And Antonia, we also loved your dish. But only one of you can be the winner and accompany us back to our dimension.” 

Spike felt a chill go up his spine. He wasn’t the only one in trouble, here. Dragons were about to kidnap Richard Blais! Holy shit! He exchanged a look with Antonia. “We might have to use these knives to fight them off,” she said. Spike blew out a breath. Antonia had balls. Tre, too, began rummaging in his knife bag with a grim look on his face. 

“We don’t let them take you, Richie,” Spike heard Fabio assuring Richard quietly. 

“And the winner is . . . Marcel,” Esme said. 

Marcel jumped up and down, pumping his fist in the air. “Yesssss! Yes! Take _that,_ Blais! Who’s the best cook _now?_ Who gets to travel to another dimension and cook for fucking _dragons?_ That’s right, _me!_ I’m the _best,_ man! I can’t believe I won! This is so rad!” 

The other chefs started at him. Antonia’s mouth hung open. 

“Some of the other dishes we had some problems with,” Esme continued. 

“Fabio, your plate was just a little rustic for our tastes,” Felix said. “And I think it could have used a little more time to develop the flavors.” 

“It was good, but the love just overpowered everything else on the plate,” Soor informed him. “Personally, that much love is just sure to give me heartburn.” 

Fabio paled. 

“And Spike,” Esme jumped in. “Your plate was frankly a bit of a mess. We invited only the best chefs from the show, and I have to say we were a little disappointed.” 

“Yes. If you’re going to cook for Unusual Dragons from a Distant Universe, you really should bring your A-game,” Felix put in. 

Spike made a noise of despair. 

“ _However,_ ” the petite pink dragon said, “there was no consensus among the dragons. Both Walter and Star Lord enjoyed your dish.” 

“Your ranch dressing was acceptable,” Star Lord said. “And there was lots of it.” 

“I found your plate very satisfying,” Walter told Spike with a wink. 

“Thanks,” Spike croaked. He felt dirty. 

“Because of this, we have decided not to eat you after all.” 

“Oh, thank _God_.” Spike collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, gibbering. 

Antonia hurried to pat his back. “You’re okay, Spike,” she said. 

“I’ll never bring up butternut squash soup again,” Spike promised her between sobs. 

“Okay. It’s okay.” Antonia rolled her eyes at Dale. 

[“It all turned out fine,” she said later. “But trust Spike to have to make a big scene. And I guess . . .well, Spike’s not all bad. I guess I’m glad the dragons didn’t eat him.” 

“I’m really glad they didn’t try to eat Spike. I would have hated to have to whip out my knives on some dragons . . . especially since they would have whooped my ass,” Tre said, laughing his crazy laugh. 

“Tsshhh,” Dale told the camera dismissively. “I knew Spike would be fine. He always has a trick up his sleeve. What did Bourdain call him? The craftiest motherfucker who ever lived? Yeah, that’s Spike.”] 

“So, uh, when do we leave?” Marcel asked. 

“Well, if you are ready—” 

“Hell, _yeah,_ I’m ready! Let’s _do_ this!” Marcel’s crazy Wolverine hair seemed even crazier than usual as he bounced all over the place. “I’m gonna see another motherfucking _universe!_ ” 

The other chefs shrugged, then gathered around to congratulate him. “Good job,” Richard said. 

“So, like, no hard feelings?” Marcel replied. “Even though I totally kicked your ass on national television in the hardest challenge we ever had, in front of _dragons?_ ” 

“No hard feelings,” Blais agreed, shaking his hand. Of course Richard didn’t harbor any hard feelings. He wasn’t crazy. Why would he want to be kidnapped into another dimension? He had a wife and kids, not to mention Fabio. 

Antonia gave Marcel a hug. “Awesome job.” 

“Thanks!” 

“I’m gonna miss you, man,” Tre said. 

“It’s all good!” Marcel seemed thrilled—and impatient. “I’ll see you suckas on the flipside!” 

Ten minutes later, Marcel had packed his knives—and left the universe. Antonia was a little teary. “I think I might miss him.” 

“I won’t. They can keep him, as far as I’m concerned,” Dale said. He turned to Spike. “What about _you?_ I thought you’d have a heart attack before they even got a chance to eat you.” 

Spike shook his head. 

“How’d you do that?” Dale nudged him. “Come on, now. What was your secret ingredient?” 

Spike looked at his feet for a long moment. “My most favorite, most expensive pair panties,” he said in a small voice. When he looked up, Dale’s eyebrows had almost disappeared into his hair, they were raised so high. “Man, screw you. You don’t get to judge _me,_ man. At least I don’t go around screaming obscenities and beating up lockers when I lose.” 

“Fuck you! That was years ago! I took anger management classes!” Dale shouted, thus proving their ineffectiveness. “Like I give a shit if you wear lacy panties, anyway,” he grumbled. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Antonia interrupted, like the mom she was. 

“Yeah, let’s settle down,” Blais added—like the dad he was. “Spike, no one cares what you wear. We’re just glad you didn’t get eaten by dragons. That’s the important thing, right, everybody? Because that would have been more traumatic for all of us.” 

No one could disagree with this. 

“And this make it easier for me to know what to buy you for Christmas,” Fabio said cheerfully. 

Spike laughed. “No thanks, buddy.” 

“Come on,” Richard said. “Let’s go grab Padma and get her treated for alcohol poisoning. She must have had a _lot_ to make _her_ pass out.” 

Spike was the last to leave the room. He looked over his shoulder at the shaky cameramen now packing things up, grateful to leave. 

Whatever anyone said, Spike would always count himself a winner of Top Chef: Night of the Dragon. He turned the lights off as he left. 

[In the closing interview, Richard Blais said, “Sure, Spike wearing lacy underwear is maybe kind of weird, but it was a kind of weird night overall. I mean, you know. Whatever, I’m just glad everyone is okay.” 

“We got rid of Marcel and Spike didn’t get eaten alive. I call that a win for everyone,” Dale laughed. “He bribed a judge with a pair of panties. Man, that is _so_ typical. That is so Spike.” 

Antonia just shook her head. “That was crazy. That was some crazy shit.” 

Tiffani smiled. “If he’d just paid attention to his dish in the first place, he would have been fine. Spike’s trouble is that he’s not confident in his cooking abilities. If he was, he wouldn’t have to use any tricks.” 

Tre laughed his goofy laugh. “I don’t know what to say. I won’t ever be scared to face the real judges again, that’s for sure. I won’t even mind hearing Padma say to pack my knives and go. For real, I’m gonna be fearless in the kitchen now.” 

Fabio Vivani sighed. “I think maybe I take a vacation now. Sunshine, nice beach, no dragons . . . maybe I will ask Padma to join me. I hear after they treated her for alcohol poisoning she say she never gonna drink again.” He laughed. “All I know is; I’m glad _that’s_ over!” 

Spike shrugged at the camera. “Whatever. I know I’m a good cook. It just wasn’t my night, so I had to use a little bit of that patented Spike Mendelsohn deviousness, that’s all. Sometimes you gotta have an ace up your sleeve. Or in my case, under your jeans. And maybe I learned something from Walter--don't be ashamed of who you are. Someday your uniqueness might come in handy! It’s all good. I think I’m gonna try to get a book deal out of it. I’m the only guy on earth who was almost eaten by a dragon! Maybe they could even make it into a movie.” He grinned smugly. He was going to come out of this okay. 

Kristen Kish sighed, shaking her head at the camera. “I didn’t compromise. Marcel only won because he put ranch dressing on his plate. I didn’t stoop to that. I cook great food and I know it.” She shrugged, obviously responding to something the interviewer asked. “Yeah, of course I’m glad Spike’s okay. But, I mean . . . I should have won. I had the best dish.” She gave the camera a steely look. “I’ll show them next time. I really am the best chef. It just wasn’t my night.”] 


End file.
